As
My small vertical windowpane frames a strip of cloud stretching the length of a tall man, thin to the point of breaking, which it will, disappearing in the pale blue March sky, fading into the cloud bank. A painter might contain dissipating air, keep the original contours fixed until the canvas cracks or paint flakes, unlike metaphors trying to capture what white on blue means or horizontal dissolution above signifies below like oil shimmering in muddy pools, patterns depending on angles of declination, optical refraction, the position of the moving earth and the shapes light takes as it penetrates elemental gases forming and reforming without an end in sight, unrecorded history as parallel lines without clear points of origination or final destination.
Swimming to Syria 12
